Inside Information
by BAnder54
Summary: A fanciful story from an 'insider' at the Lancer ranch.


**Inside Information**

The dirt road is quiet save for the black and white scruff of a dog barking at nothing. Wagon traffic and the feverish pitch of emigrants hasn't picked up through the quadrangle of adobe yet, but the bit of red cloth at the window is tacked up and startling sunlight let in anyway. Salty ocean air hurries in, replacing the stale.

The floor sweeper makes a cursory pass around her scrolled feet with his broom and rag, not bothering to flush out the measure of dust caught within fine curlicue lines. She sits in the window of Gaspar de Guzmán's small shop under a thatched roof, her once bright finish fading to a dull brown.

There have been few prospects. It's been over two months since anyone touched her. The last was an old man with tobacco spittle in his grey beard whose gnarled hands poked and prodded down the length of her California laurel inlay.

"She's true," de Guzmán told the man, eager for the brag and the pesos. "Made with only fine native woods. It would be handsome in any house."

The man ruffled his fingers through his beard in thought. "Handsome is as handsome does. Same goes for the price. The sign says seventy-five American dollars, that's too rich for my blood."

"Señor, the carpenter is an artist."

The old man tipped back his head, let loose a peal of laughter. He never came back.

Rumors of war shake Yerba Buena, people skitter from one place to another, talking behind their hands in quiet whisper. They need a gun, bullets, and a place to throw down their bedrolls. Not a handcrafted table of fine wood.

Legs of strong walnut chipped and swirled into patterns of leaves and vines. The lighter colored laurel crisscrossing the dark on each side panel under the delicate top. Forty pounds of artistic flair in a village populated by ganaderos, marineros and cantinas.

A woman stops, cocks her head prettily, and places a hand at her temple to smooth back wisps of golden hair. Her other hand pats the dust away from a black skirt and tugs down the flowered shirtwaist. She doesn't belong here. Yet a smile breaks that reaches her blue eyes. The tall man across the street calls to her, singing out in a loud rough burr. Her forehead crinkles in the moment and she walks away to meet him.

Just as well. There's nothing genteel about his sort.

She hears boot heels thudding across the floor. De Guzmán greets in Spanish, but is answered back in English, tinged with the same Scottish brogue as before.

"How much for the table?"

De Guzmán stutters, flailing for a proper response since it's been so long. "Sixty American dollars."

"Too much."

The woman's voice, strong and proper with an accent all its own, fills the room. "Please, Murdoch."

"Darling, we have no place for it on the wagon."

"We'll find room for this."

The tall man sighs, knowing he lost before he really began, and makes a ridiculously low bid. "Twenty-five, in gold."

Rubbing his hands together, the store owner readies himself for the haggling. With the senora on his side, the sale should go smoothly.

They settle on thirty-seven, which de Guzmán pinches out to the scales, and Murdoch cracks a smile at his happy woman.

She looks out of place against the old adobe wall of the hacienda, just like its Anglo occupants. The staircase is in shambles, the kitchen roof in need of repair, but the woman slides her hand into his large one and everything is all right.

What the husband and the house lack in class and grace, the wife—Catherine—makes up for with a deft hand and pretty tatted things made of lace. Taking a deep breath of warm spring air, she stares out the kitchen widow, then pulls back to watch the shadows of evening twilight lengthen along the window pane, fingers twitching on the sill. Lighter still, her fingers dance across the checks of the pinafore apron spanning her belly. She steps to the right, another to the left, actions mimicking the gentle sway of the curtain slapping against the sill.

She alights by the lantern, picks up her shuttle and threads. Soft notes of some faraway song, punctuate each pull of her needle. Murdoch will find out what he doesn't know when he returns from the fields tonight.

There'll be a baby to hold come the fall.

Catherine abandons her lace and picks up a piece of ivory paper. Hesitating over the inkwell before dipping the nib, she scratches out the letter and addresses the envelope, care of Boston.

Niños run in the courtyard, squealing from the chase of older boys, as music slows. She has been dragged outside as a placemat for the fiddler's elbow when he tires, but more often than not he's found by the punch bowl. Shirtwaist seams let out to accommodate her thickened middle, Catherine waddles to and fro between guests and estancia vaqueros while Murdoch hides his worry behind puffs of tobacco and a plate of roasted beef. The new old man with clean shoes narrows his eyes.

"Bah, sugar dreams don't carry very far, do they Murdoch? Catherine should be among her own kind, not with these foreigners."

He's still speaking when a man in green flannel reins his lathered horse to a jarring stop in front of the fire pit.

"Judd Haney and his boys burned the Rivera barn to the ground, not more than a few hours ago. Been watching a smoke curl from the west, thought it was Lancer."

Catherine goes to Murdoch, stands by his side.

He squeezes her shoulder. "Did they find him?"

"Not yet, I'm spreading the alarm, though." He shot Murdoch a pained look. "People are gettin' scared. Even with Lancer, there's only a few of us not kowtowing to Haney. And now there's one less. Not faulting him, but Rivera caved."

The old man takes out a pressed white handkerchief to cough away dust. "Let the law handle this, Murdoch. You have responsibilities here."

He measures out his words. "These are friends and there is no law here, Harlan."

The handkerchief does little to hide the old man's outrage. "You knowingly brought my daughter into this barren wilderness?"

Catherine turns to him, frowning. "Not now, Father."

Murdoch holds his wife for a long while after Flannel charges off. Men make to leave, pushing their women and crying babies into wagons, yelling to horses.

She gets hauled back inside, shoved against a hallway wall, to stand in the shadows.

Above the sound of crunching wagon wheels and hoof beats, the loud voices of Murdoch and Harlan intermingle with Catherine's protestations. "This is my home!" she tells them.

But it's two against one.

The hacienda is eerily silent after O'Brien takes Harlan and Catherine away and she stands forgotten in the hallway.

A new smell, choking like a thousand tobacco-filled pipes, riddles the air. The door bursts open. Murdoch, his shirt torn and dirty, face and hands blackened, stumbles inside and leans a long stick against the wall. He's halfway to the kitchen when boot heels scrape against portico tile.

"Murdoch!"

O'Brien has returned, but not Catherine or the old man.

"The baby's early…"

He leaves with O'Brien and doesn't come back for three days.

Murdoch staggers inside to the wall, leans on it for support. He bites his lips as his whole body trembles. He makes a fist and brings it down on a moan. She slides, legs thumping across tile, until she crashes into the door frame.

The wide crack that cuts across the California laurel doesn't hurt. Murdoch shoves her out of the way, ignoring the scratches and dent that mar her top.

She understands Catherine will never come home.

Murdoch speaks in fluent Spanish now. "Just a bit further, Maria."

And so does the new woman. Her words have a musical accent. "I can't wait any longer, I'm opening my eyes."

When she does, they match her gown of red—sparkling. Her mouth falls open as she looks around the room.

"Beautiful!"

Maria looks like Catherine when she first saw her: joyful, content.

The next day, clucking over the damaged top, Maria orders a man to move her to the back portico. Later that night, Murdoch takes her back to her place between the bookshelf and curtain.

"We bought the table for the house."

"We? You mean you and your other wife."

"No…er, yes. It belongs here."

Maria's face hardens for a moment, then she smiles.

In the morning, a vase of fresh wild roses covers the dent.

She is large with child and squirms to find a comfortable spot. Murdoch sits beside her.

"Home. It sounds nice doesn't it? The hacienda is finished and by this time next year, the valley will be green with alfalfa. Soon, we'll all be together." He squeezes her hand. "Are you happy?"

"I didn't come here to be the second wife. Mother to her child. He has his own place and his own family."

Murdoch's brow wrinkles. "Nonsense. Don't talk that way. Everything will change when he gets here. You'll see."

Trembling, she whispers to herself, "It's not nonsense."

Maria is upstairs in the bedroom where she and Murdoch sleep. A third man is there, a stranger with a thick black bag. Murdoch comes downstairs to pace in front of the fireplace.

Outside, a hammer meets the anvil with loud twang.

Murdoch drags his fingers through his hair.

Maria's chorus of screams echo, each marked by a sharp reprimand from the stranger. Just as he drops his forehead to the mantle, they stop. He looks up when a different cry tumbles out of the room. The stranger comes down the stairs, two at a time.

"You're supposed to shake my hand, Murdoch. Or should I call you Papa?"

"Maria? Is she…?"

"She's fine after all her caterwauling. It may not have been the easiest of births, but it certainly was the loudest. Now where's my pay?" He nods towards the cabinet. "I'll take a dose of your fine Glenlivet as a deposit."

Murdoch's hand quivers when he reaches for the bottle. The stranger takes it from him and pours his own drink, lifting his glass in salute.

"Here's to your new son."

The baby, Johnny, sits in a high-chair built several summers before, bumping his chubby legs against the slats to some melody only he hears. A wooden pony, painted yellow with yarn for a mane, keeps harmony with every whack.

"Juanito! Shush!"

Murdoch scoops him up amid chatters and squeals.

"Why do you want to leave now, when our boy needs you?"

"We've been through this, Maria. I'm going to Boston to bring Scott home."

"You're always away from home."

He juggles Juanito to one hip. "You know the ranch needs work and the trip back east will take money."

"Stay with us." She holds her stomach and his eyes widen.

"Another baby? So soon?"

When her waist doesn't thicken like before, he curses the lost time.

A different man sits in the parlor while Murdoch is far away. Until the housekeeper shows disapproval.

Maria grows silent, looking out the window. She has gone on these so-called buggy rides before, but this time she takes Juanito and his yellow pony.

They don't return.

Murdoch weaves around his chair, a boot heel catching her scrolled foot. Its intricate curlicue lines are broken, but he doesn't notice. With one hand, he sweeps away the dead flowers, sending the vase crashing to the floor.

He pounds her top with his fists, burying his face in his hands.

He leaves and stays away for a long time.

Returning, he sits in the dark pouring out Glenlivet. Only the stranger with the black bag and the housekeeper visit. No one talks about Maria or Juanito. One day, Murdoch puts down his bottle and takes her and the highchair up the stairs to a small room and covers them both with linen.

Years pass. Wrapped in sheeting, light turns dark. Dark turns light. Sometimes she yearns for the soft hands of Catherine, the honeyed tones of Maria, the sheer joy of Juanito and his pony.

One day, neighing horses pound the courtyard. Booms follow high pitched yells. A new name is shouted: Pardee!

The young lady, Teresa, uncovers and moves her to meet the sun again. Almost as hot as it was in the corner of de Guzmán's shop. A finely made lace thing is found and shaken to get rid of cobwebs and dust, then laid over her weathered dent. Lilacs go into a new vase.

Murdoch hitches into the room and she realizes he has changed in the time since he went missing. The hair turned grey, the face wrinkled and leathery. Only his eyes remain the same: a stormy blue. Startled to see her against the wall, he stops and closes them while his fingertips skirt the vase to find the damage under the lace.

With each thrust of cane tip, his left boot heel scrapes the tile floor. Flopping into a chair, he searches for a piece of ivory paper and nibbles his thumbnail over the inkwell.

Taking a deep breath, he begins.

Murdoch's desk drawer squeaks every time he pulls it open. On the third go-round he takes out the two pictures and holds them up to the light.

A brisk knock sounds on the office door.

He fumbles the pictures back into their space, assembles his face into a deep frown. "It's open."

Two men walk inside. Their solemn expressions don't give much away. She has heard of trouble coming to Lancer—land pirates—and these men look capable. There's something more familiar about them, though.

Fancy Suit hides his anger under a veneer of ruffles. She's seen his face before, and when he speaks, his deep voice carries the same notes as Catherine.

Leather sings when he walks, the melody stopping abruptly when he leans against her. Younger than the other, yet prickly just the same. He doesn't have his yellow pony anymore.

Murdoch sees.

He looks to Juanito: "You have your mother's temper." The boy stares back and takes off his hat.

Then turns to Scott: "You have your mother's eyes." This boy is nonplussed and his head tilts back a bit.

Do they know he looked for them? Do they care?

Topped with fuzzy lace, her lines marred with cracks and chips, relegated to being a leaning post for the moment—she wouldn't have it any other way. She'll miss Catherine and Maria, but parts of them are in this very room.

These two men belong here.

And Murdoch? He's finally home, too.

The End

6/3/13

A/N: Yerba Buena was the original name of San Francisco until the Mexican American War ended with the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, when California became a territory of the United States. Playing loose with the dates, I figured C and M would have taken a long boat ride to get to California around 1844 or so.


End file.
